


Private Miracles

by Amalia Kensington (amaliak01)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, F/M, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 16:15:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3735340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaliak01/pseuds/Amalia%20Kensington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Dreams are our own private miracles.”<br/>Sherlock dreams about a life he’s not living.<br/>(Series 3 generally, but within the time frame of 3.2)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PetraTodd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PetraTodd/gifts), [Emcee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emcee/gifts), [sempaiko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sempaiko/gifts), [miabicicletta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miabicicletta/gifts).



> Thanks to these lovelies for putting up with my wackiness.  
> Mistakes are mine, and that's the only thing I own.

_It wasn’t what he wanted at all._

__

_He could feel everyone’s eyes on him, the hairs at the back of his neck standing up and he did his best not to whip around and yell at them to mind their own damn business._

__

_He glanced to his left to catch sight of Molly. The look on her face showed that she was just about as uncomfortable being the center of attention as he was. This wasn’t how they’d planned it when they’d discussed it, but Sherlock had known the moment his mother found out, he and Molly would be right where they were right now: standing in front of an altar before God and dearly beloved in a forcibly traditional ceremony that neither one of them wanted._

__

_He shifted on his feet impatiently, his eyes drawn to the side door of the church and mentally planning a route of escape as the minister before them droned on. The sound of his mother clearing her throat somewhere behind him killed that thought immediately._

__

_Sherlock could tell Molly had noticed and was biting her lower lip to hold back her laughter._

__

_He took a sharp intake of breath--oh, sod it all._

__

_“Enough of this,” Sherlock interrupted, and the grave looking man at the altar sputtered to a stop. “Yes, very good, do us a favor then and keep standing there looking official, no matter how arbitrary that officiation may have been while we get on with this.”_

__

_Sherlock turned to Molly fully, ignoring the surprised gasps from the audience, and the choice words being uttered by both his mother and Mrs. Hudson. He plucked the small bouquet she held in her hands and roughly tossed it to Mary who stood not far behind her and took both of Molly’s hands in his so they were facing each other._

__

_“Cold facts and reasoning have always been what I value most in the world, and of most value for my life where emotions of any kind have no place. I understand that this makes me, in fact, one of the most unpleasant and insufferable people to exist, and yet you,Molly Hooper, you who is the representation of the falsity of my beliefs, you love me. This isn’t a claim that you make, in fact, I don’t believe you’ve ever uttered it more than twice, but it is evident to any fool who would just bother to see it. I’m sorry that I was a fool for so long.”_

__

_Sherlock took a deep breath, refusing to look anywhere but directly at her. “I’m not one to make vows as the world is so changeable and uncertain, I cannot be sure of hardly anything that will come in the future. But I will vow here and now that I will spend the rest of my life devoted to you in every way that you’ll allow me to be. Please be sure in the knowledge that I am, and always will be, truly yours. Molly Hooper, will you accept me?”_

__

_He held her gaze steadily, doing his best to convey what he was feeling beyond the frustrating construct of words. They somehow felt empty, not nearly enough to capture what it is was that he felt in his heart, cementing in his mind the absurdity of such a ceremony._

__

_Molly’s warm fingers squeezed his. Of course she understood. It was Molly, afterall--she always managed to see right past anything he said and find the truth. His Molly knew what he meant, understood him in ways that he barely understood himself. She took a step closer to him, enough to shut out anything that might be in his peripheral vision._

__

_“Yes, Sherlock Holmes, I do. I know that this won’t be easy, for either of us to do. But I do love you, with everything that is in me, and I vow to you to be faithful, loyal, and true to you, devoted to you in every way that I know how to be for the rest of my life.” Her voice was soft but steady and sure, her eyes clear and resolute as she held his gaze._

__

_Somehow, she always managed to leave him speechless._

__

_“Will you, Sherlock Holmes, accept me?”_

__

_“Yes.” His answer was immediate, resolute and final. Of course he would._

__

_Mary--as always--was one step ahead of them and he felt Molly’s fingers leave his hands briefly to accept the golden bands from her. The cool metal slipped over his finger  and he took a moment to return the gesture, curious and more than a little awed at how something so seemingly insignificant could really hold such power._

__

_He felt the wide grin that spread over his face as he looked up again at his wife._

 

* * *

 

Sherlock’s eyes opened slowly, the dream still hanging around the periphery of his brain even as he got up from his bed. He walked through the empty hallway of the flat into the equally empty sitting room, his eyes flitting about, searching out for evidence that would confirm or deny what his brain was still uncertain of. His eyes caught onto the wall where tacked on brochures and printed photographs of a beautiful church and salon with canary yellow walls.

Perfect for the Watsons.

The visions of a smiling Molly, of dancing, of a loosened bow tie hanging around his neck and a golden ring glittering on his finger faded away as the reality settled in.

He’d been with John and Mary just the day before to finally agree on a venue for the wedding to happen in six months’ time. It would be a late summer affair, and now that they had a real idea of the space, start paring down the guest list.

And Molly...Molly was marrying someone else.

Sherlock felt himself frown, something cold not unlike disappointment settling at the pit of his stomach. His eyes caught onto a steaming cup of tea waiting for him just beside his chair. How convenient! He carefully sipped the tea and the thought that he would never have had a big wedding at a church anyway disappeared as the warm Earl Grey slipped blissfully down his throat.  

* * *

  **  
**


	2. Chapter 2

_The second the words slipped out of his mouth, he knew they were the wrong thing to say._

_The faces all around him stared at him in a range varying from horrified to awkwardly uncomfortable to downright mortified. That last one was the one that tipped him off, really, seeing the blush that bloomed on Molly’s face was a clear sign that he had indeed over-shared._

_Mary was doing her best to keep a straight face with little to no success as Sherlock loudly cleared his throat._

_“Well, John,” Molly spoke up suddenly and everyone turned to her in surprise. “If you could just do us a favor and limit the blog entry to say that Sherlock and I are ‘very happy indeed’ and leave it at that?”_

_There was a titter of laughter and the situation diffused itself rather beautifully as the small party gathered around the sitting room went back to chatting and sipping their drinks._

_Sherlock sat quietly (not moodily) in his chair while the rest of the party continued on, only getting up to play a carol or two as people thankfully bade their goodbyes._

_“That was a bit not good, earlier.” Sherlock said after he’d dragged Molly onto his lap, blissful quiet falling onto their flat once more. He had his face buried in her neck, his nose brushing against the wool of her festive jumper._

_“Hmmm, maybe,” Molly hummed in reply, and Sherlock could imagine her face, her nose wrinkling a bit in that damnably endearing way as she carded her fingers through his hair.  “John was only commenting on how happy we looked.”_

_“Yes, well, it’s none of his business, is it?” Sherlock snapped, his earlier frustration bubbling up again. Years of Mycroft’s conditioning still had him bristling against anything might be considered mocking when it came to the choices in his life, even though rationally he knew that John meant nothing by it._

_“No, that was his business, he’s your best friend,” Molly replied. “What’s really **not** any of his business is just how often we’re having sex.”_

_Sherlock groaned and held Molly tighter to him, keeping his face hidden against the skin of her neck._

_“I’m still getting it wrong, aren’t I?” he mumbled quietly, not daring to look up at her, remembering the look on her face when he’d managed to reveal something so deeply intimate in public. Would he ever learn to stop humiliating her? He wanted to blame this ridiculous holiday._

_Molly gently tugged at his hair so that he would look at her. The light from the fire cast deep shadows and the multicolored lights hung around the windows as a way to fend off the cold with holiday cheer reflected across her skin._

_“They’re our friends, darling, they understand. It’s alright, really,” she told him, smiling at him lightly._

_His eyes searched her face, wondering, as ever, if he would ever come to understand the woman who’d married him._

_She leaned forward, pulling him into a soft kiss that was long and languid, an intoxicating rush that managed to always leave him feeling slightly lightheaded and blissfully clear minded. Their lips met over and over, comfortable together in his chair, their arms around each other, the crackling fire the only other company that was welcome._

 

* * *

 

The feeling of being chilled is what woke him, sitting up roughly in his chair in the dark. He blinked a bit in the darkness, his eyes casting to the fireplace which lay dark and cold, not a hint of a fire.

 

Sherlock glanced around the flat, wondering why he’d been dozing in his chair alone, the phantom feeling of a warm body in his arms still heavily present. His eyes fell on a box, stark white and catching the March moonlight, a piece of sample cardstock, cream with a printed red ribbon and holly at the top as a decorative piece.

 

“That’s ghastly for a summer wedding invite,” Mary had said when she saw it amongst the samples for the invitation paper. “But don’t throw it out, might want it to invite people for a Christmas do.”

 

Sherlock stood up from his chair abruptly, snatching the offending piece of cardstock that had infiltrated his subconscious and chucking it into the bin.

 

He stomped his way over to the kitchen, shaking the last bits of sleep and his dream as he flicked on the light and started a strong pot of coffee. There were some experiments that needed tending to.

 

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

_“Is this really necessary?” Sherlock realized that his voice was taking on a whining sort of pitch, but he couldn’t really help himself. “Why do we have to have people over at all?”_

_“Because it’s either this, or we let Mary plan something and lord knows that she would want to throw us a big anniversary party,” Molly replied, continuing to write names on the scrap of paper on the desk._

_She was still scribbling when he reached over and plucked the list away from her, her half-hearted protest punctuated with slap of his arse to which he smirked in response. He flopped down in his chair, eyes flitting over the list. Reaching for a pen, he began crossing off potential guests._

_“No. No. Not them. Good Lord, why would you think I would invite them to our home, honestly Molly,” Sherlock grumbled. A few more flourishes of his pen and he handed the list back to his wife, standing up to pick up his violin._

_He heard her exasperated sigh. “Sherlock, yours and mine are the only two names left on here!”_

_“It’s the only two people who should be celebrating our anniversary. You’re the only one I want here on a special day like that,” he said plainly, running through a few scales on the instrument._

_He managed to pick up a tune as he turned to the window, finding the song he’d composed for her ages ago, while he was off playing dead. He got lost in the notes for a moment until he felt Molly’s arms wrap around him from behind, her face pressed into the space between his shoulder blades._

_“You daft man,” she mumbled as he stopped playing, laying down his violin to turn around and hold her properly. She molded against him, her lips lightly brushing his collarbone before pressing her ear to his chest. “All I want is to spend that day with you too.”_

_“We could run away, I suppose,” Sherlock said, running his hand up and down her back. “I could pretend to have a case that I absolutely require your assistance on.”_

_“Mmm, John would know, wouldn’t he?” Molly replied. “I don’t want to hurt their feelings, they want to do something nice for us.”_

_“Can’t they nicely leave us alone?”_

_Molly giggled and shook her head, pulling back to look up at him. “How about just going to Angelo’s with the Watsons and Mrs Hudson and then we can sneak out early and come back here?” She leaned up and kissed his pulse, her voice dropping an octave. “For dessert?”_

_Sherlock raised a brow at that, doing his best to keep himself under control. His eyes darted to the window, as if trying to conjure a memory. “I believe that it’s said that life’s too short not to have dessert first.”_

_He smiles wickedly as he picks her up, her giggles as she hangs onto his shoulders on their trek to the bedroom echoing in his ears._

 

* * *

 

 

When his gaze manages to focus again, he notices he’s nearly bled a hole into the desk where he’s held the pen to paper too long.

 

Daydreaming again.

 

Sherlock shook his head briskly, clearing his throat as he carefully crossed out the names that he knew John would rather not attend but had trouble saying so. A few flicks of the wrist and he managed to tack up the paper on the wall along with the other plans for the Morstan-Watson wedding.

 

“Morning, Sherlock! You’ve started early,” Mary’s voice flitters through the flat and Sherlock felt himself breathe a little easier. Harder to drift off when others were around.

 

Oh, he’d noticed how often he was doing it, the disturbing regularity of his dream state floating him to a world where his life was very very different from the one he was currently leading, a life that included a certain specialist registrar.

 

Molly Hooper.

 

He’d surprised himself, that day, when he’d told her out loud how she was the one person who had mattered most. It had surprised him all the more to realize that it was true--and quite without his knowledge. Molly had become the center of so much of his life without his realising that he’d put her there. What was even more surprising is that he didn’t mind it as much as he knew he was supposed to.

 

But now-oh, but now-it had changed again. Now, his brain was betraying him when he was asleep, at his most vulnerable. It was conjuring images that brought feelings: feelings that he didn’t know he could possess, much less how potent they could be, desires that he’d thought long dormant, hopes that he’d always scoffed at others for having. It was flat out betrayal, but the feeling of indignation that should have come with it was not present.

 

It was making him jumpy and nervous, enough to drive him to seek distraction, which thankfully, the duties of best man allowed him to do. Though in hindsight, he thought with a frown, it was possible that diving headfirst into this wedding was what was putting him in such a state in the first place (it certainly couldn’t be explained by how he was patently uninvolved in the planning of Molly’s wedding, though from what he’d been able to gather, not much was happening on that front anyway).

 

Somewhere in the background he heard John mumbling something, and Sherlock refocused on the lists before him.

 

“Your half of the church is looking a bit thin, Mary...”

 

* * *

 

****


	4. Chapter 4

_“Oh, what’s this?”_

_He raises an eyebrow at her overly casual tone, immediately suspicious._

_Sure enough, Molly made a big show of pulling a medium sized package wrapped in bright blue paper out of the oven. Her face held the pantomime of surprise when she held it up to show the small boy seated at the table._

_Blue eyes lit up with excitement and Sherlock’s mouth quirked up a bit, still holding up his newspaper but watching the interaction in the kitchen with interest._

_“What is it, Mummy?”_

_“Why don’t you open it and find out?”_

_Wrapping paper was ripped apart with gusto and laughter followed._

_“Is this for me?” The pure excitement in the voice of the child is still a wondrous thing to Sherlock: something that he knows all too well gets harder and harder to find later in life._

_“Of course.” Molly is smiling as the boy launches himself at her middle, clinging tightly._

_“Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!!!”_

_“Alright then,” Molly reaches over to the counter and holds up a box of slides and a few sterile cotton swabs. “Go and get changed and we’ll set up.”_

_Giving up the pretense of reading the paper, Sherlock ambles into the kitchen to peer at the present that his wife has brought for their son._

_“Did you get Isaac a portable microscope?” He picks up the box. “That is wirelessly connected to the television?”_

_“Yes. And no, you don’t get to borrow it.”_

_“But what if I ask really nicely?” He asks, slipping his arms around her waist from behind, ducking his head to kiss the skin just below her ear._

_“Mmmm, well. I suppose after he’s gone to bed, it wouldn’t be a problem.” She’s melted against him for a moment, enjoying a moment of quiet before their whirlwind of a son would come dashing down the stairs, eager to play with his new present. “But only if you’re very very good.”_

_“Oh, Doctor Holmes, I can’t make any promises.”_

_Isaac barrelled back down the stairs, lab coat on, safety goggles in place, a handful of small gloves clutched in a fist._

_“Daddadadadadadadadadadad, open your mouth, I need your DNA!”_

_“Isaac,” his mother snaps with a stern voice. “What have we discussed about using that tone?”_

_The child blushes a bit. “Sorry, Mum,” he mumbles before straightening up and turning to his father. “Dad, may I please have swab of your cheek so that I may record your DNA for posterity?”_

_“Thank you,” Molly says, pulling away from Sherlock to reach for her own lab coat hanging in the hallway._

_“What would you need my DNA for posterity for?” Sherlock asks his son, sitting at one of the seats at the table, making him eye level with the boy._

_Isaac rolls his eyes dramatically. “To identify you, of course! You know, for when they find your body!”_

_Sherlock’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “My body?”_

_“Yeah. Uncle John and Uncle Greg are always saying that one day someone’s just going to let you have it, so I thought we should be prepared, just in case you and Mum fake your death again.”_

_Sherlock’s eyes meet Molly’s over the top of his son’s head, eyes narrowing when they note her barely contained laughter._

_“Indeed.”_

 

* * *

 

  


He snapped himself awake from yet another daydream, eyes briefly flitting towards the kitchen without his permission, knowing that he wasn’t seeing a scrap of bright blue paper on the floor nor hearing the echo of laughter.

 

He ran frustrated fingers through his hair as he let out a growl. All of this was too much. It was getting easier and easier to slip into daydreams of a life that was not his, not even close, triggered by the smallest things, like ordering the correct size for Archie’s morning suit taking into account the rate of growth of children his age and the time left until the wedding day. How a visit from a small person could throw him into a sickeningly sentimental mood (leaving him with the hollow ache of longing) was beyond him.

 

Well, enough was of enough. Something has to be done, because this was getting out of hand.

 

He looked around for an excuse, a reason to go to her. Lestrade had suspended his cases with the Yard after the last summoning to Baker Street (which, incidentally, was not at all his fault) and Mycroft’s minions seemed to be too busy to bother with him for once. Not a single interesting client and he was between experiments for now. His eyes landed on a file tucked just beneath a pile of tabloids. Aha! He plucked it out, shuffling some of the details inside: John’s medical records. He would ask Molly for help with the stag do thing, a planned pub crawl that Sherlock thought was pretty inspired with a flair of the personal touch.

 

He pulled on his coat, imagining that her admiration at his cleverness would be a good segway to inviting her along on a dry run, visiting past crime scenes where he could continue to dazzle her with his genius and she would look up at him with those wide brown eyes and--

 

He froze in place, catching sight of himself in the mirror above the mantlepiece. _And what, Sherlock?_ His brother’s condescending voice taunted from within his mind palace. _What will you do then, hmm? Sweep her off her feet? Right out from under her fiancee’s nose? Tsk, isn’t that a bit hypocritical?_

 

Sherlock scowled at his reflection, throwing off his coat and tossing it over to the couch in frustration. What on earth was he thinking? How had things gotten this far? A besotted little puppy, begging at the wrong table for any little scrap of affection.

 

He dropped into his chair with a heavy sigh.

 

It had taken two long years out being well and truly alone to know that he hated it, and that maybe, just maybe, he wanted more out of life, to admit there were people that he actually cared deeply for and even to go as far as to admit that he was perhaps capable of more, with the right person.

 

He knew the right person. The only person it could possibly be, but as usual when it came to Molly Hooper, he was too little too late.

 

Any attempt to start anything now would be wrong, ungentlemanly, and was certain to cause pain. He’d resolved long ago to not to consciously cause Molly any type of hurt. This, at least, he could do for her. Thinking back to that day in the hallway when he’d bowed out as a contender for her heart had been and still was the right thing to do. He couldn’t change his mind now.

 

Maudlin and stroppy, that’s what he’d become, his treacherous brain rebelling against him, perhaps in retaliation to the lack of interesting cases, egged on by his steadily growing heart.  He blamed John and Mary and this wedding that just wouldn’t come fast enough.

 

Sherlock had more self control than all this. Doors in his mind palace were shut, heavy curtains drawn over windows. There were things that he’d never remove, never want to remove. But they couldn’t see the light of day, couldn’t be acted upon. He could keep them, hidden away in quiet places, stored as his own private miracles of a life that was never to be.

 

No, he would overcome, they would both carry on moving on opposing paths and slowly drift further away from each other.

 

Sherlock froze.

 

Is that what would happen here? Surely, Molly wouldn’t...they were at least friends, weren’t they? Five years ago, the only person he’d ever referred to as ‘friend’ was the grinning one on his mantlepiece, but that was all different now: Sherlock has friends. Not that many, though, and he’d be loathed to lose one of them over something so petty as a his own treacherous heart.

 

His eyes float back to the file he’d just discarded. Calmly, he stood up and put on his coat, retrieving the file and leaving his flat, flagging down a cab that would take him to Barts.

 

He could always use some friendly advice.

* * *

 

 


	5. Epilogue: Not A Dream, But A Miracle All The Same

Sherlock hadn’t had dreams that he could remember since before Lady Smallwood hired him to deal with Magnussen. Sure, there were vague figments, especially right after the wedding, but nothing really that he could recall after that. At first, Sherlock had been thankful: keeping his growing feelings for Molly in check had been proving to be a growing problem that he really couldn’t afford. In fact, everything had stopped so abruptly, he’d questioned the validity of his own feelings for a while.

 

Until she saved his life and revealed herself to be almost as prevalent in his mind palace as the wallpaper that it was lined with.  

 

Which brought him here, now, with months of gruelling work and so much pain and history behind them: he stood in her lab, the closest he’d dared get to her since the day weeks ago he’d come back from his short lived exile.

 

“Molly.”

 

She gives him her full attention easily and readily, her eyebrow raised slightly as she waits for him to continue. His mouth feels absolutely dry.

 

He clears his throat and barrells on, not wanting to risk stopping for fear of losing his nerve. “I’ve never been a particularly sentimental man. In fact one could argue that I’ve done everything in my power to avoid sentiment and entanglements of the sort. I believe that this is the reason that most of my friendships have been hard won, and therefore all the more valuable to me and I hope to my friends as well. Of these, I find that your is a friendship for which I have only the highest regard and would be loathe to damage it beyond repair. However, I find myself at a point now that I cannot allow myself to carry on with that sort of relationship.”

 

He pauses for breath and to gage her reaction thus far, but as usual, Molly knows him, knows that he’s not quite finished yet and is therefore doing her best to listen until he is. Her face looks to remain mostly neutral, but in a flight of fancy, Sherlock believes he sees something shining in her eyes. He doesn’t know what it means.

 

He decides that perhaps taking a step closer would reassure her. “If I’m going to be honest,” he went on, his tone just a bit softer, his words slower. “I have to say that I want more. I know that up until now I’ve been an obnoxious, stubborn, ignorant ass and I can’t promise that I won’t still be that most of the time, but I’d like the opportunity to try to make you happy.”

 

Sherlock stepped right into her personal space. “So, Molly Hooper, I’m asking you if we can try to be more than friends.”

 

He watched as she swallowed thickly before dropping her gaze from his, seeming to concentrate very intensely on the buttons on his shirt as her breathing sped up a bit. Sherlock wasn’t sure how to proceed at this point, and was weighing his options until Molly leaned forward into him, her forehead resting against his sternum even as her small hands wrapped tightly around the lapels of his suit. She was breathing heavily now, the tell-tale sniffing let him know that she was crying.

 

He held back a groan, as this was exactly what he’d be hoping to avoid, and somewhere deep in his mind palace, a voice whispered that he was too little too late, that he’d gone the extra step of breaking her heart once she’d finally gotten it mended fully from all the other times he’d been so careless with it. Why on Earth should she trust him? He should have been on his knees thanking her for simply being his friend, for not running him out of her morgue and her life after everything he’d put her through over the years, but no, the selfish bastard that he was, was asking more from the woman who’d always given so much. He truly was an idiot, a right wanker for even considering--

 

“Are you going to stand there thinking or are you going to kiss me?”

 

Her voice brought him back to the present, where Molly had lifted her head from his chest and was busy wiping away tears as she gave a watery laugh. “Not that I really had dreamed that this is how you would do it. Not terribly romantic with me being a sobbing mess.”

 

Something in his heart lifted at her words. He quirked an eyebrow, suddenly in the mood to tease her a bit, even if it was only to hide his own rush of emotions.“And how did you dream it, exactly?” Impulsively, he brought his hands to her face, cradling it between his palms, his thumbs brushing away the wetness from her cheeks.

 

She’s biting her lower lip, trying to contain her grin. “Well, I’d always thought there would probably be a dead body between us, to be honest.”

 

It’s so unexpected and yet so wholly exactly the type of thing she would imagine that it makes him laugh out loud. “Maybe next time.”

 

Before he can overthink it, he brings his lips to hers, soft and sweet, sweeter than his own mind could conjure.

 

Her eyes were still closed when he pulled away, his thumbs stroking the soft skin of her cheek, not fully ready to give up the sensory data that he’d just discovered.

 

“Dinner?” he found himself asking.

 

“What?” She blinked her eyes open at him, and a strange sort of pride swelled in his chest to see her as dazed as he felt.  

 

“Molly Hooper, would you like to have dinner with me?”

  
Her grin was wide as she leaned up to kiss his cheek. “I’d love to, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

* * *

 

**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this took my forever to write, but I finally posted it!! Thanks so much for reading, and I would really appreciate your feedback!  
> FYI: Sherlock gets stood for his first date with Molly...not on purpose, of course, but a reanimated corpse (not zombies only post-mortem spasms) cause for a change of plans.  
>  _“Why didn’t you call me?”_
> 
>  
> 
> _“I’m sorry, I know that we had plans, but--”_
> 
>  
> 
>  _“Molly, you had a reanimated dead body. Our plans could have become investigating that.”_  
>  Bless these idiots.


End file.
